Vulnerable
by Amelia Bennett
Summary: Linnet Harper is new to Gotham City. A detective with a less than amiable past, she doesn't trust the idea of a vigilante and never intends to snuggle up to Batman like Jim Gordon does. Unfortunately, she realizes that this has become painfully unavoidable now that he's injured and unconscious on her sofa.
1. Rodent Problem

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything DC related. I only own the OC.**

Vulnerable

Chapter One – Rodent Problem

I had a commanding officer once who told me that a cop should never be afraid. He said that people rely on us. People need us to stay strong, stay brave. If we let fear take over us, make decisions for us, we let those people down. In a way, I suppose that's true. I've seen great cops make bad decisions because they got scared. Career or life-altering mistakes. Maybe their hands shake a little and the gun goes off before it should. Maybe fear grabs ahold of them and twists all the prejudice and uncertainty and doubt until anger comes ringing out of it in buckets. I don't know. But I sure as hell know we can't avoid it.

Jim Gordon always understood. Every time I asked him, he was honest about it. He told me on countless patrols how he felt about Gotham City. It scared the shit out of him. That night, as we drove home, I asked again.

"We're human." He said. Smoke curled out the driver's side window from the cigarette in his hand. "And this is Gotham. We can't avoid being afraid, not here."

I gazed over at him. His eyes were fixated on the road but his mind was clearly elsewhere. It often was with Jim. He'd spent the better part of his life as a cop in Gotham. The last five years he'd been commissioner, which he informed me had turned his hair grey faster than you could snap your fingers. He'd seen a lot, and on quiet nights it played like a film in front of his eyes.

He continued. "Some of the greatest officers and people I've known are built from fear. Born out of it." He took another drag on his cigarette before turning to face me, the dim street lights reflecting at me through his thick glasses. "Let yourself be afraid, fear is motivating. Just don't let the city get to you. It can be taxing, especially for a cop. We all watch out for each other, us good guys."

I scoffed. "Determined I'm one of them, are you?"

"I have a good feeling." He got a fatherly glint in his eye. Maybe he even felt paternal, because he turned away from me again. He didn't talk about his kids much. I think his wife ran off with them. He'd accidentally called me Barbara a few times. It was either his wife or his daughter's name. I didn't look anything like them, and I think he knew that he was doing it. I think he just liked to say it every once and awhile, to keep in practice. To see if he could still bring himself to.

"When you say us good guys are looking out for each other, you mean the Bat, don't you?"

"Him too." He sighed. "He's good."

"You sure about that?" I caught sight of my hair in one of the side windows of the patrol car and cursed. It was working its way out of the confines of the strict bun I forced on it in the morning. I reached into the glove compartment in search of an elastic. It was my squad car, after all. Gordon just liked to drive. I found a tie and started to strangle my long black hair with it while he spoke.

"Hell, I can't be sure about anything in Gotham. I can't even be sure the damn sun will rise tomorrow, but I trust him."

I snorted. "Wish I did."

"You of all people should trust him. He saved your skin, didn't he?"

"Looked awfully high and mighty doing it." I grumbled.

 _My first week living in the city I'd been singled out by a pack of idiots with knives and a strong desire for the contents of my wallet. I'd been blindsided and shoved into the alleyway next to my apartment. I stumbled into a wall, my palms splitting open against the bricks. Wheeling to face them, I evaluated the situation. There were three of them. Two bigger ones and a wiry one. Oddly enough, he seemed to be in charge, because he spoke first._

" _Give us your wallet and you won't get hurt."_

" _I'm not giving you fucking anything." I spat, wishing I had my gun on me. That would show them._

 _The skinny one laughed. He blinked hard, swiped at his nose. Fuck. He looked coked out, which would make him more dangerous. A knife blade glinted in his hand. My eyes travelled to the other two and landed on the similar weapons they had removed._

" _Try again, bitch."_

 _I swallowed thickly. There wasn't much chance of me making it out unscathed, but I wasn't about to forfeit my wallet and my pride along with it. "Yeah, answer's still no."_

 _He lunged then, and in a flash I was on the ground, blood trickling from a cut on my arm. I looked up, panicked, ready to run if I had to, but there was a dark figure standing between me and the would-be thieves. I couldn't move, I couldn't breathe. Batman._

" _Holy shit." I scrambled backwards, bashing my head against the dumpster so hard I saw stars. I climbed to my feet shakily. A fight had broken out. The three knife wielding idiots were really stupid enough to try and take down a man who - as far as I'd been told - seldom lost a fight with common street rats. I slipped past them, ducking under blows and stepping over an already unconscious body. I booked it down the block, feeling relief wash over me when my apartment building came into view._

 _I didn't want to cause a stir going in the front, so I headed for the fire escape around the side. I was ten feet away when a dark figure dropped to the pavement in front of me. A string of profanity blew past my lips._

" _Jesus Fucking Christ." I breathed. "What are you after me for? I didn't start that shit"-_

" _You should get to the hospital, get that knife wound looked at." He spoke in a low voice, rumbling up from his chest. It was a practiced growl, intended to be menacing and intimidating. His mask tilted downward in a perpetual snarl. I tilted my chin up defiantly, determined to not be afraid of him, or at least not to let it show._

" _I have medical experience. I'll handle it." I shocked myself with the firmness in my voice._

 _He inclined his head slightly, a fraction of nod. I didn't like the way I felt like I'd been rescued, like I was just another damsel. Had he followed me because he wanted a thank you or something? I headed up the fire escape and by the time I looked back he was gone, but I still felt uneasy, like he was watching me from the darkness._

"You don't know him like I do." Gordon sighed, drawing me back from the memory.

"You don't _know_ him, not without the costume."

He chuckled. "So what, you want me to invite him to the precinct for coffee or something? Can't you just have faith in the man? At the very least, have some faith in your commissioner."

"That's not fair. You know I trust you, you're not jumping around in a mask beating the shit out of bad guys."

He chuckled. "Thank God. Could you imagine?"

I shook my head, laughing. "I trust you, Jim, but not that guy. He's too untouchable, too invulnerable. 'You can't trust a person you can't grab ahold of.'" I snuck a glance at him, wondering if he'd caught on to who I was quoting. "The commissioner I have so much faith in said that to me once."

He laughed again. "He sounds wise."

"He likes to think so." While I appreciated Gordon's respectful relationship with the Bat, I had no intention of trusting a man in a cape and a mask. I had no intention of ever meeting him again. I wanted nothing to do with the guy. He freaked me out. But the universe, as it turns out, had a sense of humour that night.

I dropped the commissioner and the car off at the precinct and headed back in the dark towards my apartment.

It was a shitty place, crappy and small. I couldn't open the oven all the way or it would smack into the fridge, and vice versa. The selling point for me had been the view. I'd probably live at the top of a lightning rod for a good shot of the skyline. I was at the final floor of the building, and the Gotham out my window looked like it belonged in a picture frame.

I got the inexpensive apartment extra cheap because of a rodent problem, which had prompted me to make the trip out to the shelter and pick up the first cat to glare in my direction. I needed a ruthless one. When I got home that night, she was perched on the window watching the lights move down below. I scratched her behind the ears affectionately. She lunged to bite my fingers.

"Dammit, cat." I tsked, yanking my hand back. "Still not warming to me, huh?" It had been five months, and she still hated my guts. I left her alone and grabbed a beer from the fridge. The door clanged jarringly against the oven. I ignored it.

I had one more can of Budweiser. I popped it open and stood in the doorway to the living room and drank it. I watched the cat's tail flick with interest. I wondered what she was so interested by, a bird probably. Or a bat, but we didn't have too many of those in the downtown area. Not unless you were counting the vigilante population. I reached up and touched the turquoise pendant that hung at my collarbone. Soothing cold against my skin.

A couple years ago, I'd been a cop working out of Delaware. Because I was Indigenous, I was delegated to issues on the reservation. My superiors wouldn't let me work anything else, they didn't have an ounce of respect for an 'Indian', and they'd proved it so many times. I put out my resume on a whim. I was shocked – to say the least – to get an email from a commissioner. Especially one in Gotham city. Jim Gordon needed honest cops, and I was happy to oblige. I was in desperate need of some change, a new start. Maybe I needed the job a touch more than I'd let on when I first met with Gordon.

What I'd experienced in Delaware that had finally pushed me over the edge was bad. A better word would be terrifying. I had thought I was going to die.

I realized my chest was heaving, my heart was beating franticly against my ribs. My breath came in panicked gasps. I leaned heavily on the doorframe and slid down to the floor, my legs having wobbled underneath me. I closed my eyes and tried to calm down.

I don't know how long it was before I opened my eyes again. It might have been hours. The beer was leaning precariously up against the wall, having slipped out of my hands. Shakily, I put the can to my lips and took a long sip of it. It was warm, and it spilled down my chin.

"Fuck." I breathed. "Not again."

Weren't cats supposed to be therapeutic? I glanced over to see her still sitting on the windowsill, ignoring my breakdown completely.

"Thanks for nothing." I grumbled. Her head whipped around, eyes trained on the ceiling. Her whole body tensed, she stared up at the space above us. I frowned. "What's gotten into you?"

The cat made a low sound in her throat, somewhere between a growl and a whimper. I scoffed and climbed hastily to my feet. I started back into the kitchen when a sound came from above me. It was loud enough for me to hear it through my ceiling, which meant something intense had happened up there. It sounded like someone had fallen over. I groaned. Not poor Morello.

My landlord was ancient. A nice man, he could be a little sexist, but he gave me a good deal on a crappy place. He was old though, with a cough that buzzed like a chainsaw. I'd seen him headed for the roof numerous times running his mouth about the pigeons that roosted up there year round. Of course I expected it to be him. I would have expected it to be a fucking STOMP rehearsal before the reality I faced as I climbed out my window on to the fire escape and began the rickety ascent to the roof.

"Mr. Morello?" I called, hauling myself over the edge. "It's Lin. Lin Harper. Is everything okay?"

A groan answered me. In the darkness, I squinted to see anything, but couldn't. There were no lights on, and the rooftop was cloaked in a heavy darkness. The neighbouring apartment buildings stood a few floors taller than mine, with windows that looked out onto our roof. No one would be able to make out poor Mr. Morello in the dim glow the city cast. It was lucky I heard him.

"Mr. Morello, I'll call an ambulance, okay?"

"No." The response shocked me. It was then that I realized whoever was up there was not my landlord. The voice had been low, more of a growl. Whoever it was, they were obviously in some amount of pain. I tentatively followed the sound. "No ambulance."

"Whoever you are, if you're hurt you'll need medical attention."

He didn't answer again, but I could hear him gasping. I stepped over an air vent and immediately tripped over something solid and landed hard against the rough surface of the rooftop. The solid thing groaned.

"Shit." I muttered. "Sorry." My eyes finally adjusted to the darkness and I gasped. The man in front of me wore all black, his face obscured by a mask with pointed ears and narrow eyes. It was him. It was the Bat again. Splayed out on my rooftop like a bug on a windshield, and unmoving. For a few moments I just sat next to him, nursing my scraped-up knee, until he turned and looked directly at me. His blue eyes cleared momentarily.

"He's nearby." He rasped.

"Who is?"

"You-you're a medic."

I was both annoyed and slightly impressed that he'd remembered. Then it dawned on me. "Wait. Did you come here on purpose? To my building?"

I didn't get a response to that either. Instead, he pointed upwards.

I followed his gesture and gasped. Standing on top of the neighbouring building looking down at us was a dark figure. I couldn't quite make it out fully, but there was something ragged about its face, warped. It turned and disappeared.

"What the fuck was that?" I hissed, but got no reply. Whatever or whoever it was, it had seen us. If it had sent the Bat hurtling over the side of a building, I doubted I wanted to meet it personally. I needed to move, but what about Gotham's debated hero?

The Bat was mumbling incoherently. Behind his mask, I watched his eyes dart back and forth. His breath was rapid and fearful. He was seeing something I was not. I reached out to touch him and he jerked away.

"Woah, calm down. I'm trying to help."

"Gas." He murmured.

"What, you on drugs or something?"

His eyes closed suddenly. They didn't open again. He was still breathing, but unconscious. I sighed, glancing one last time up at the building before grabbing one of his arms. Whatever or whoever that was, it was probably still after him. Hero or not, he was unfortunately in need of help. Since he'd made it clear there was to be no ambulance involved, that left me in a slight predicament.

"Gordon better be right about you." I muttered, before hauling him back the way I'd come. He drifted in and out. The fire escape was a nightmare. He was able to lean heavily on me, but something was up with his leg, and he couldn't put much weight on it. Probably from the fall. There were several times we nearly went pitching over the side, he was so heavy and out of it. Blissfully, after what felt like ages, he managed to make it back down the stairs and back through my open window before collapsing on to my sofa. The cat mewed inquisitively as I stared at him.

"Not a clue." I muttered in response.

I pulled up my torn up red recliner – claw marks courtesy of my miserable feline – and parked myself in front of the couch. I waited for him to stir. I didn't sleep. I hardly even blinked. My gaze shifted from him for a few minutes once; to watch the sun peek over the city skyline. Then they flicked immediately back to the unconscious form in front of me.

He was huge, he'd been ridiculously heavy. I understood why some of the thugs we picked up thought he wasn't human. Something about the costume made him seem larger, and I'd seen first hand that he was damn frightening at night and when he wasn't knocked out on someone's couch.

I will admit, there was an urge to peel the mask off. Who wouldn't be tempted? I'm only human, after all. You sit and stare at a man enough and you get an idea of what he's like from his movements, his eyes, the way he talks. But in front of me was an unmoving costumed guy in a mask. There was nothing to know, and I didn't like that idea.

The very second he showed signs of consciousness I was on my feet. I don't know why. A fight or flight reaction, I guess. I froze somewhere between the two.

He groaned, I saw eyes move behind the mask and they locked with mine.

"Who are you?" He asked suddenly. I was taken aback by the tone, as if I was a criminal that he was interrogating

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Where am I?"

"My apartment. Since it's my apartment by the way, I think I'll be asking the questions." He nodded, gestured to me to continue. "You fell on to my roof last night. What happened?"

"I jumped for it. Or maybe I was pushed. I don't remember. I was being attacked."

"You're lucky you survived. Although your leg's pretty messed up. I think you may have broken something."

"Feels that way."

There was a silence while he worked his way into a sitting position. It was nearly comical, the sight of Gotham's protector slumped on my ratty couch.

"Who pushed you?" I couldn't help a smirk. "You going to press charges?"

"I'm not exactly able to testify." He grimaced. I noted that it wasn't quite an answer to my question, but continued.

"Do the drugs make you stronger or something?"

"What?"

"Last night you were on something strong. You were seeing things."

His eyes met mine behind the mask. That electric blue. "It's a fear gas. A neuro-toxin."

"So not something you'd take willingly then. You were drugged?"

"Yeah."

"Wyo drugged you? That nutcase that pushed you?"

"Yeah." He stretched out his injured leg and groaned.

"Don't do that. Hold on." I knelt next to the sofa and pulled out my first aid kit. "Let me see to it."

"It's fine."

I scoffed. "You're in no shape to go anywhere. Someone was after you last night. Seems like we're stuck with each other for a little while, like it or not. If that leg is broken, you'll be out for weeks. I'm sort of your only option here."

His jaw tensed. He wasn't going to let me treat him. He was going to rot and die in my stupid apartment before he accepted my help, and that made me angry.

"You can either limp home in broad daylight or stay and let me look at your leg. Like it or not, I saved your life last night and for some reason I've decided to continue to do so."

"I don't need your help."

"Really? I could have easily left you on that rooftop at the mercy of the creep that pushed you. I chose not to. And now, even though I'm not really that fond of you, I-I guess you can stay here as long as you need."

"I remember you. You're the medic from the alley. What's your name?"

"Linnet Harper. I'm not a medic. I'm a friend of Jim Gordon's."

"Okay." He reached for his mask, grasping it at the bottom and preparing to pull it off.

 **Thanks for reading! I will be continuing this. Please review!**


	2. Unmasking

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything DC related. I only own the OC.**

Previously:

 _He reached for his mask, grasping it at the bottom and preparing to pull it off._

Vulnerable

Chapter 2 – Unmasking

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"You're right. I'm stuck here. If you hadn't pulled me off that rooftop I'd probably be dead by now. If I'm going to stay here, I'm not going to hide. Any friend of Jim Gordon's is trustworthy, so long as you don't tell him about this."

I panicked, suddenly frantic at the idea of unmasking the Batman in my living room. "Well hold on. Maybe when it gets dark again we can slip you out of here or"-

"I don't see how. Not with a busted leg. Not dressed as the Bat, or who I am without the mask."

I didn't question the last part, though it had piqued my curiosity. To my disappointment, everything he'd said had made sense. The man wasn't going to spend time in the apartment with a mask on. He was trusting me, and that was sort of exciting. He reached up hesitantly, and removed the mask from his head. My first thought was that I recognized him from somewhere, I just couldn't pinpoint it. I hadn't been living in Gotham long, I must have seen him on the street somewhere. My second thought bordered on approval of his sharp masculine features, and I brushed it away immediately.

"Okay." I breathed. "Okay. What's your name?"

He smirked up at me. "Seriously?"

I crossed my arms. "Am I supposed to know?"

The corners of his mouth twitched. "Bruce."

"Bruce what?"

"I'm confident you'll figure that out."

"What, are you famous or something?" He didn't answer, just looked around the room studiously. Occasionally his eyes would flick back to me, as though matching small details of my apartment to whatever personality traits he'd picked up from me so far. I recognized it because I had a tendency to do the exact same thing.

Annoyed, I exhaled sharply and rubbed a hand across my eyes. "You want some coffee?"

"I'd love some."

I strode into the kitchen and flicked on the coffeemaker. I drummed my hands on the counter as the clear pot filled with hot brown liquid. What exactly had I gotten myself into? Had he ever taken off his mask in front of anyone before? Did he have to kill me now? Why the fuck had I decided to put him on my couch?

I poured the coffee into two mismatching mugs. When I went back, the cat was sitting next to him on the couch. She was purring, a sound I'd only heard once or twice before. Usually she made it after she'd dropped a dead mouse next to my pillow in the middle of the night.

"How'd you manage that? Damn cat hates me." I observed as he scratched her affectionately behind the ears. She had fur the colour of the london fogs they served in a cafe down the street from the precinct. The hair always stuck up in bizarre directions and made her look like a frazzled old woman. Her yellow eyes were always zeroed in on me in a perpetual glare. She wasn't the most attractive looking creature, and I wasn't fond of her, but it irritated me she preferred the man on my couch.

"Why do you own a cat that hates you?"

"I had a rodent problem. Much like I do now." I muttered and handed him a cup. He'd removed the top half of the costume and set it next to him on the couch. I was treated to a blistering image of his muscular core as he sat and held his coffee. I turned my gaze on the bookshelf and cleared my throat. "You need milk or something?"

"No."

"Great, because I don't have any."

We sipped our drinks in silence, refusing eye contact. I downed mine despite the scalding temperature and gestured to his leg. "You going to let me take a look at that?"

He nodded, peeling off the bottom half of his costume to reveal he was not wearing anything but some boxer briefs. I don't know what I'd been expecting, but I must have looked flustered, because he covered himself up with my fleece blanket. "Sorry."

"Not a problem." I knelt to take a look at his leg. It was swollen and bruised around the knee. I touched it tentatively and he grumbled. "I don't actually think you broke it. By some miracle I think it's only sprained, badly bruised maybe."

I felt around the lower part of his knee, where it seemed the most swollen. He winced and swore. "It's your MCL. Probably a grade one sprain. You'll have to stay off it for a while though. These usually heal in two to four weeks. You're lucky."

"Not lucky so much as well equipped. The armor is protective." He rapped on the chest piece of his costume to demonstrate. His clear eyes met mine again. "When were you a medic?"

"When I served in the army."

"What do you do now?"

"I'm a detective." His eyes widened. "Don't worry. I'm not going to tell on you. Gordon figures you're one of the good guys. And I trust him."

"You don't trust me?"

"There's something about a man in a mask I don't like. A man who hides." I said, sitting on the edge of the coffee table.

"I'm not wearing a mask now."

"You might as well be. I still don't know anything about you."

"Maybe that's for the best."

I rolled my eyes. "How brooding." My phone buzzed, and I noticed what time it was. "Shit." I answered it, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Harper."

"Lin? Where the hell are you?" Jim Gordon's voice was a parental combination of concern and irritation.

"Late. Sorry. I had an unexpected visitor."

"Well I sure hope it was important. We've got a vic down at Arkham we need to take a look at. If you aren't at the station in twenty minutes I'm going without you."

"I'll be there." I hung up and wheeled to face the man on my sofa. I swallowed thickly, trying to gather some sternness. He seemed like a man that was tough to intimidate, but I was going to try my best. "I have to go. I'll be back later. If you put weight on that leg, I'll amputate it myself."

I met the commissioner in front of the station. He was already perched in the driver's side of my squad car, and he didn't look happy. His irritation was squashed when I nearly collapsed into the passenger seat. "You okay?"

"Tired. Didn't get much sleep." Any sleep, actually.

"Well I can see that. You're still wearing yesterday's clothes. Everything alright? What was that visitor thing about?"

"Less of a visitor and more of a rodent thing." I grumbled.

"Again? I thought your cat dealt with that."

"She's a little out of her depth this time."

"You do own a gun." He chuckled.

I cocked an eyebrow. "Are you giving me permission?"

"Absolutely not."

I sighed and reached for the radio. He batted at my hand as we pulled away from the station.

"Hey! It's my car." I protested.

"I'm not listening to that crap again." He muttered. "There's only so much a man can take."

"It's not crap! Stevie Nicks is a goddamn treasure. When we're in your car I put up with your shitty elevator music." It was a low-blow. Jim Gordon had a secret adoration for jazz that was so passionate and so well-concealed it may as well have been an affair.

He shot me a withering glare. "Fine. Go nuts."

I switched over from his news radio station to the CD that was already in there. It was the Rumors album by Fleetwood Mac, which Gordon had deemed the 'most tolerable'. We drove in silence, his was annoyed and mine was pure bliss.

I was still uncertain as to why Gordon had brought me to Gotham. Even more curious was the fact we were almost inseparable, we bickered back and forth all the time, but never anything serious. Some days I felt he treated like his moody teenage daughter, but we were friends, I guess. We were partners. We understood each other.

I think secretly, I was also his ticket back out into the streets. As commissioner, he was supposed to be sat at his desk all day behind a mountain of paperwork, but he always found a way to weasel out of it. To his credit, you never really got to relax and write a report as a cop in Gotham city. There was never any time. When I'd first arrived, he'd offered to show me the ropes of working around the city, and he hadn't really stopped.

When Arkham came into sight, I stiffened. I'd never been. Gordon had warned me it was a tough place to visit, that it creeped him out. I understood why. It loomed over us even as we were crossing the bridge towards it. Arkham was an almost castle-like structure that jutted out of the ground as though it had crawled up out of the earth; reaching with dark, towered talons towards the sky. Gordon made a play for the radio as we approached the gate and turned down my music.

"If they know I'm listening to your hippie 70's junk, I'll never hear the end of it." He explained. I rolled my eyes in response.

We each showed our badges, and the tall iron gate swung open with an audible squeal that sent shivers down my spine. We drove through and I was overwhelmed with the feeling that we would never be leaving. Was that how the patients felt? The doctors and nurses that worked with them? Arkham Asylum was claustrophobic to me, and we weren't even inside yet.

"You okay?" Gordon asked as we climbed out.

I nodded at the building in front of us. "Reminds me of a boarding school."

"Is that so bad?"

"For the Indigenous kids, remember? I told you about them. They were called residential schools up North."

"Oh." He murmured. "Right, shoot. Sorry." For an old white guy, Gordon was relatively progressive, caught up. He didn't assume anything about me, no stereotypes. He let me go on for hours about those schools once, he asked questions about it, he felt horrible for those children.

"It's okay." I crossed my arms and took a deep breath. It was late August, and already I could feel traces of fall in the morning air. "Let's go in."

We were met inside by a young woman who introduced herself as Dr. Quinzel. She had pale blonde hair that she'd smoothed back into a flawless bun. Her blue eyes were rimmed with big black spectacles that perched with sophistication on her nose.

"He was brought to us late yesterday evening. He had some kind of fit in a restaurant. His colleagues are trying to keep it quiet for now. His wife doesn't even know he's here."

As she spoke, Gordon lagged behind. I turned to see what was going on. He tsked, eyes scanning a text. "Wayne." He glanced up at me and sighed before responding to whoever it was and following the doctor and I further through the dark hallways of the asylum. She strode with a kind of forced confidence through the building, heeled shoes clipping with a determined pace. I couldn't imagine working in there. It was too menacing. The corridors themselves were threatening in a way. They were narrow, dark, claustrophobic. Like the exterior, they gave the impression you weren't going to be leaving.

My discomfort must have showed on my face. Gordon put a hand on my shoulder. "You okay?"

I nodded. "You were right. This place is awful."

Quinzel stopped in front of a windowed cell and stared in thoughtfully, tapping a pen against her lips. "Here he is." She murmured. We halted and looked in on the figure of a man, strapped to a table. His lips were parted in a scream we couldn't hear through the thick glass. His suit was in tatters and there were gashes on his forearms and face, as though someone had been tearing away at it; at him. "We had to restrain him so he'd stop scratching." The doctor said, as though reading my thoughts.

"What's wrong with him?" I asked.

"He's showing signs of extreme fear and clearly hallucinating. Just yesterday he was a respected lawyer, and look at him now." The doctor shook her head. "We're not sure what prompted it."

"Drugs?" Gordon suggested.

"We've tested for your basic hallucinogens, they came back negative. At this point, we'd have to know exactly what we're looking for."

I stared through the window at the man convulsing on the table, screaming for help, eyes flickering over things only he could see. I was reminded of last night. "What about neurotoxins. Could you screen for those?"

"Uh." The doctor looked to Gordon, who nodded. "Sure, I'll let you know as soon as I get the results." She left, scribbling on a clipboard, heels clicking down the narrow corridor.

"What's that about?"

"I've seen something similar recently and I'm testing a theory."

He nodded. "Okay. I hope you're right."

"Me too." My phone buzzed in my pocket and I picked it up as Gordon excused himself to talk to another doctor. An unknown number.

"Hello?"

"Miss Linnet Harper?" Asked a man on the other end. I didn't recognize the voice, but he spoke with a British accent and though I was confused, my name sounded lovely off his tongue.

"Uh, yeah?"

"I believe we have a friend in common."

"Which friend is that?" I was still new to Gotham, I didn't have many friends. Scratch that, I didn't have any friends.

"The one currently residing in a relatively compromising state of dress in your apartment." I froze. Who the hell was this guy? How did he know? "When you arrive home there will be some supplies for him waiting in the lobby of your building."

"What kind of supplies?" I had to work hard to speak. My mouth was dry.

"Some clothes. A few first aid supplies. Groceries. He informed that me your refrigerator is a bit… lackluster."

"Well you can _inform_ him I hadn't been expecting company." I muttered, and hung up.

When I arrived at the front desk of my building, Mr. Morello handed me a big cardboard box. He struggled to lift it across the counter, and I sighed as I took it. For the millionth time that day, I wondered what exactly it was that I managed to get myself into. I had some hope as I rode up to my apartment that stretched itself thin in two directions.

The first: that Batman would be gone when I got home.

The second: that he would _not_ be gone when I got home.

But he was there as I opened the door, propping himself up and sorting through my bookshelf. I dumped the box on the coffee table. "Who was the man on the phone today?"

"Alfred. He told me you were snippy."

"It's possible I was a little bit brisk. I got a call from a stranger about the stranger in my apartment. Wouldn't you be?"

"That's fair." He eased down on the couch, wincing. "He's good people though. He's family."

I ignored his sentimentality. "I'd like to know how you got hold of my phone number."

"That sort of thing is easy to track down with my resources, but I did it the old-fashioned way. Commissioner owed me a favour."

"Which one of you? Bruce or the masked idiot?" That explained Gordon's odd behaviour responding to his text earlier. He probably didn't like having to give my number over. I made a mental note to chastise him for not warning me.

"The favour was for Bruce." He said. "Why do you hate the idea of Batman so much?"

"It's complicated." I yawned.

"How brooding." He chuckled, mimicking my tone from earlier.

I rolled my eyes. "I'm gonna take a shower. In the meantime, go through that box your British friend sent."

He looked amused. "Am I looking for something specific?"

"Pants for you." I headed for the bathroom. "And something alcoholic for me."

I turned on the shower, stripped, and stepped in. The hot water felt heavenly against my skin. I was so distracted by the warmth and how good it felt that I let a little alarm bell going off in my head slip by.

I walked out in a towel to find Bruce – finally wearing a shirt at least – and adjusting a leg brace around his injured limb.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"I have to go out tomorrow."

"That could make it worse."

He shrugged. "I have to risk it. The business isn't going to run itself."

And just like that, the little alarm bells flooded back. The business? Bruce said he'd gotten my number from Gordon. Gordon had checked his phone and muttered the name Wayne. I drifted to the window and looked out at the beautiful Gotham skyline. The tallest building I could see from my apartment was lit up in white, announcing proudly:

 **Wayne Enterprises**

I suddenly remembered where I'd seen his face. Not somewhere randomly on the street. No. I'd seen it in the newspaper, the tabloids. I'd seen him on a goddamn billboard. The face of the company, the CEO.

"Bruce _Wayne_?" I wheeled, eyes wide, staring at the man hovering on his injured leg. In my moment of shock and recognition, the smug fool actually had the audacity to smirk at me.

"There you go, Detective. I knew you'd figure it out."

"Fuck." I breathed, staring at him. "Why the hell are _you_ Batman?"

"What do you mean why?"

"Oh you know what I mean. The costume, the 'vigilante justice', the violence."

"I only hurt people that deserve it. I don't kill anyone. I don't think I have to explain _why._ This city needs someone to take justice into their hands in situations where the cops can't."

His last comment struck a nerve. "How fucking noble." I groaned. "So not only do I have Batman in my apartment, I have Gotham's most notorious playboy."

He broke into a wide grin. "Hey now, that's an image I work tirelessly to keep up."

"I'm sure sleeping with beautiful women must be exhausting." I rolled my eyes. Gesturing to his leg brace, I added. "That's not going to work, by the way."

"Alfred didn't think so either." He sighed. "I don't have time to wait and heal."

"Tough." I snorted.

"What?"

"You heard me. Fuck what you've got time for. If you stand on that leg – brace or not – it's going to get worse and worse. You could end up with a stress fracture, a pinched nerve."

"Bruce Wayne can't be seen on crutches." He grumbled. "Batman fell last night and someone saw. If I suddenly appear in public like this, that someone will notice."

"Then take off the damn brace, be patient, and get better."

"I'm telling you, I don't have time." His voice had gotten low, a growl again. It sounded a bit more like the man behind the mask than the charming playboy.

"Why not? Because of that neurotoxin? Is Gotham in trouble?"

He froze. "Why do you say that?"

"Gordon and I went to Arkham today. A man who was perfectly sane yesterday went totally out of his mind over dinner. A lawyer."

"Sounds like the same neurotoxin."

"Why are you so unaffected?"

"I've built up an immunity to a variety of toxins over the years." He said the words casually, as though it was a perfectly normal response. "Plus, the mask helps filter out potentially harmful gases. This lawyer, did you get his name?"

"That depends."

"On what?"

"Whether or not you know the name of the guy that beat the shit out of you last night."

He chuckled. "You really are a cop." He removed a bottle of scotch from the box on the table and opened it. "His name is Doctor Jonathan Crane. Do you have glasses for this?"

"This wackjob is a doctor?" I went to the kitchen and removed my only two glass cups from the cupboard.

"Yeah. A well-renowned psychiatrist. He's done a lot of research on fear, how if affects the brain. I'd heard rumours for a while that he was working on some kind of fear-inducing drug. I thought they were just rumours." He poured us each a large portion of the pale amber liquid.

"Until last night?"

He nodded. "I have a CI that heard about a bunch of street kids getting a bad batch of drugs from a guy they were calling 'Scarecrow'. A bunch of them overdosed and some went missing. I was trying to track them down. My CI sent word that he wanted to buy some and he was told to meet on that roof. I went in his place"-

"And this 'Scarecrow' showed up." I murmured, remembering the figure I saw peering over the side of the building. The tattered appearance of its face, like a scarecrow's.

"I'd met Doctor Crane as Bruce Wayne at a function. I recognized his voice immediately. I wasn't expecting the drug to be in a gas form, the kids had said it was an edible."

"So he caught you by surprise, gassed you, and"-

"Beat the shit out of me, as you so eloquently put it. Yes." He took a sip of the scotch, barely cringing at the strong taste. "I don't know what he's planning, but he's taken a lot of kids."

We sat, taking sips, thinking. His informant was probably in serious trouble. All those kids missing. I understood why he was so eager to get better, he was of no use to anybody injured. I looked over at him. He'd been in my apartment less than twenty-four hours and he was practically sick with desperation. I could see it in his eyes, the way his knuckles were pale around his glass of scotch. It wasn't simply that he wanted to help, he _needed_ to.

"Tell me what I can do." I heard myself say.

"You shouldn't get involved."

I scoffed. "I can handle myself"-

"I didn't question that. I don't know what we're up against, that's all. Whatever's going on, it's extremely dangerous." I liked his use of _we._ That meant I stood a chance.

"You're in no position to be going out and getting answers. Let me look into what I can while you heal. Then, when you're ready to get back into things, you'll be a little bit better prepared." I watched him wrestle with the idea out of the corner of my eye while I polished off my scotch.

"Fine. But I've got some rules, and if things start to go South, I'm pulling the plug. Deal?" He stuck out his right hand with a determined look in his eye. I matched his gaze and shook on it.

"Deal."

 **Thanks for reading! Please review if you so choose.**


	3. Jonathan Crane

**Chapter Three - Jonathan Crane**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own anything DC related. I only own the OC.**

I was slumped at my desk fighting a scotch-related hangover when Gordon's phone rang. He waved me in through the window as he answered it. I practically sprinted into his office. He'd told me earlier to expect a call from Arkham about the neurotoxin, and I was anxious to hear the results.

"Thank you." He said, and hung up. Jim eyed me curiously. "Well, you were right. It was a neurotoxin in that lawyer's bloodstream. What exactly made you ask about it again?"

"I've seen something similar in Delaware." It was a full-fledged lie, but I couldn't exactly spill the truth.

"Hmm." His eyes searched mine skeptically. "Well, good recall. We might have missed that otherwise."

"I'm pretty smart. You should keep me around."

In response, he dumped a pile of paperwork in front of me. "You're behind on your reports, genius."

"Who isn't?" I countered, but he sat down and waved me out of the office, apparently uninterested in my excuses. The no-nonsense Jim Gordon wasn't my favourite guy. I preferred the chain smoking jazz lover that drove me around in my own GCPD issued squad car, but I understood his change of mood. He was under a lot of pressure as the commissioner, I didn't envy his job.

I parked myself down at the desk and eyed the paperwork as though it were a pile of severed fingers. Just because I had a little sympathy for Gordon didn't mean I intended to spend my day doing paperwork. I opened a browser on my computer and typed the first thing that popped into my head.

 **Bruce Wayne**

My search brought up millions of results. He had his own Wikipedia page for fuck's sake. I scanned it, taking note of his birthdate, the long list of schools he'd attended. One of the headings caught my eye.

 **Death of Thomas and Martha Wayne**

Wait, what? I clicked and the page scrolled down to a paragraph that detailed a fateful night when Bruce was ten. His parents had been murdered in front of him. A mugging gone wrong. I sat back in my chair, exhaling sharply. Well, that would explain his drive to clean the city up. I felt a pang of sympathy, but swallowed it down with a sip of coffee. Lots of people experience trauma, not everyone puts on a cape and beats the hell out of criminals because of it. I had to keep a clear head around Bruce, that was for certain. I couldn't risk feeling any empathy or understanding, not as long as he wore that mask.

I exited Wikipedia and looked at the headlines some more. There were plenty tabloid sites wondering who his next girlfriend would be. To my dismay, he was Gotham's most eligible bachelor, according to multiple media outlets. My eyes rolled back into my head. No wonder he was so afraid to be spotted. If someone saw him leaving my apartment, the papers would have a field day.

Another headline caught my eye.

 **Wayne Ward Spotted in Dominican Before Start of School Semester**

I clicked and was taken to another tabloid site. It had a grainy photo of a young guy on a beach. He cut an athletic figure in his swim trunks, his eyes hidden behind glasses. I read the caption. Who the fuck was Dick Grayson?

I typed his name in next. His story was so similar to Bruce's, it didn't seem at all surprising that he had taken the young boy as his ward. What didn't make sense was how this boy could have lived in Bruce's home for all those years and not known about Batman.

Unless of course, he did. Further down on his Wikipedia page was a video of him in the circus with his parents. I watched him twist and turn in the air, slipping from one trapeze to the next.

"Holy shit." I sat back in my chair, taking a deep breath. A theory formed a the forefront of my brain. I made a note to confront Bruce about it later.

I searched again, this time a different name. Jonathan Crane. The page filled with scholarly articles, Ted Talks, and his website. I clicked on the website first. All breath left me. According to his website, Jonathan Crane was going to be lecturing at Gotham University. I checked my phone for the date. Today. It was perfect. I slumped a little, remembering that Bruce was against me getting anywhere near Crane. Though, a lecture wouldn't kill me, would it? Realistically, Bruce didn't have to find out either.

Half an hour before the lecture was scheduled to begin, I bolted for Gordon's office door and knocked a little too enthusiastically. He raised an eyebrow and peered at me over his thick glasses, unimpressed. "What?"

"I'm going to a lecture."

He frowned. "What?"

"At the University. We're allowed to, right?"

He set his pen down. " _You're_ going to a lecture?"

"Not entirely sure I appreciate the tone there, boss."

"A lecture on what."

"Psychology. Fear. Brain stuff." It was not entirely convincing, but Gordon straightened his posture and nodded.

"Good. I like to see you taking initiative, Lin."

With his approval secured, I headed for the lecture. I had taken down the building and the room number, but stepping on to Gotham University campus was like stepping into another universe. The tall towering buildings looked like churches to me, their stone bricks a worn taupe colour. I got swept up in the crowds of teenagers scrambling to get to their classes. The green space in the center of campus was teeming with students sprawled out on blankets or benches. I'd never had a post-secondary education. I'd gone straight from high school into the military. The world of higher education was frightening and unfamiliar. As I traced my way to the lecture with a flimsy map of campus, my heart quickened with every step.

"Dunwell Hall." I muttered. "Dunwell." My gaze flew to an arch that boasted the name I was looking for and I all but sprinted inside. Dunwall Hall was a picture-perfect and cheerful old building, full of natural light and portraits of old stuffy men who'd contributed something monetary to the University. I scaled the steps to the third floor and stalked down the hallway until I found the room number. I pushed in and locked eyes with the professor. I flashed my badge and he nodded, smiling warmly.

I felt more than a little out of place staring at a room full of fresh-faced students. I felt their eyes on me immediately, curious about the one that didn't belong. I made a beeline for a seat at the back of the lecture hall. Everyone was chatting excitedly, their professor pacing at the front. He checked his watch every half a minute, evidently eager for the guest speaker to arrive.

The door opened and a well dressed man stalked in. He had fawn-coloured hair and his wire frame was cut nicely in a tailored suit. A pair of glasses rested their rectangular frames against pale blue eyes. I recognized him from his pictures. This was Jonathan Crane. He was not a frightening or intimidating man, and as he adjusted his spectacles and cleared his throat, he seemed almost nervous to speak in front of a room of students.

He launched into an introduction of himself, his extensive background in psychology, his various studies on the brains, neurons. There was no doubt the man knew his stuff.

"So. Let's talk fear. We know that it can break people. Examining cases where the term 'scared to death' was - for lack of a better description - frighteningly accurate." To my amazement, he actually got some chuckles for that one. "A case of a 79-year old woman whose heart stopped after she found a burglar in her home. What do you think about that?"

A blonde girl near the front raised her hand. He pointed at her. "It wasn't fear that killed her, but a bodily response to fear." She said.

"Good! But her heart wouldn't have given out had the brain not sent signals of panic, you see?"

It went on like that for an hour. Small case studies that featured fear and the brain. I found myself zoning out, wondering how all the students were so glued to his lecture. I was startled back to reality, feeling someone looking at me.

"You, in the back." Crane had pointed directly at me. "What do you fear most?"

I swallowed had an intense, burning gaze. His eyes seemed to summon the truth from me, pry it from between my lips. "People." I said, before I could stop myself. Everyone turned to look. Someone stifled a laugh near the front. Great. I'd made myself sound like a basement dweller. Doctor Crane however, smiled encouragingly.

"Interesting. Can you explain that?"

"Well I-I mean when people get angry, afraid, even when they don't understand something. They can act so impulsively, even violently, especially in a group. It's terrifying to be on the other side of that."

"That's a very rational fear. One that this woman probably developed from experiencing this human rage first-hand. It's incredible what shapes our fears. Ethnicity, cultural background, trauma, or even a little tick somewhere in the brain. When we act on fear, it can sometimes dehumanize us, make us band together and act in a horrific way. That in itself – as you said – is terrifying. However, harnessing this fear could be an incredible weapon of politics, destruction, et cetera. What I have learned over my many years at Arkham, is that fear can make people extremely weak. But facing that fear, fighting it, will make you stronger, If you survive it."

My heart accelerated in my chest. What the hell was he talking about? Fear as a weapon one can harness? I mean politicians seemed pretty good at it, but his tone hinted at something more. Crane paused for a moment, reigning it in before he continued. "So kill your fears, I suppose. Whether it's water, clowns, or people. Face them, and come out stronger. That's it, dismissed."

Students around me clapped and started to pack up their things, but I was frozen to the spot, his words echoing oddly in my head. The room was practically empty before I was able to move again. I put on my coat and started for the door, but a hand on my shoulder stopped me. I turned to face Crane, his darkened blue eyes staring inquisitively into mine.

"You aren't a student, are you?"

I blinked back my fear and slipped into what I hoped was a charming tone of voice. "I hope that isn't a comment on my age."

He chuckled. "No, no. You have fears that are far too sophisticated for someone who is still learning." He put out his hand. "Jonathan Crane."

I took it. "Linnet Harper, GCPD."

His warm smile didn't falter. "A policewoman, how interesting. What brings you here?"

"We're allowed to sit in on the occasional lecture. When I heard this psychology class was having a guest speaker, I couldn't pass it up. I work with people and their emotions, as an officer. Any opportunity to better understand them is one I will always take."

"That's very admirable. We need more officers like you."

"Detective, actually. And thank you." The next sentence tumbled out of me. "I actually have a case right now that might interest you."

"Is that so?"

"What do you think could cause a man to snap one day?" I was going for it. "A man with a good job, reasonable wealth, respected by his friends and colleagues. What would cause a man with no prior issues to have a mental break? To suddenly be overtaken by fear?"

Nothing showed in his eyes. No recognition, no discomfort. He thought for a moment. "That's an interesting one. I'd love to discuss it with you in-depth, sate your curiosity. Perhaps over dinner?"

I had to clench my jaw to prevent it from dropping to the floor. "Dinner?"

"Yes. How does tomorrow sound? I'll pick you up at the precinct around six?"

"Sounds good!" I chirped. "See you then."

I walked calmly out of the classroom. I walked calmly out of the building. I walked calmly, all the way out to my cruiser. I drove back to the station and sat calmly at my desk until Gordon tapped on my shoulder and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

"Christ, Harper. It's just me. What's wrong with you?"

I looked up at him, teeth caught in my lip. It was indicative that I was about to confess, knowing I would have to conceal some of the details. "I did something dumb, Jim."

"What did you do?"

"I'm going out to dinner."

"That doesn't sound dumb."

"If only you knew who was taking me." I countered tiredly. I couldn't say anything to Jim yet. He'd ask me why I was already so focused on Jonathan Crane, and I wasn't about to inform him that a little bat had told me.

He patted me reassuringly on the back. "I'm sure you'll be fine. Wayne isn't _that_ awful." I jerked my head up as he walked away. Wayne? Of course, since Bruce had asked for my number, it made sense that Gordon would think he was the one taking me out for dinner. I let my head fall limply against my desk. It was day one of my investigation and things were already complicated.

* * *

I went home almost immediately after work, stopping only to pick up some groceries. I did have company, after all. I opened the door to my apartment and yelped. "Jesus Christ." There was a new man standing in my living room, nosing through my bookshelf. He was younger than Bruce, maybe in his early twenties. He had dark hair and eyes. They could have been brothers, except I knew from my research that he was an only child. Which meant this had to be the ward.

"Hi!" The kid said.

"Who the fuck are you?"

He stepped towards me and stuck out his hand. "Dick Grayson. You must be Linnet." Bingo. Dick gave me an appreciative once-over.

My arms laden with groceries, I ignored his hand and walked past him through to the kitchen. "Cool it, kid. I think I'm a little old for you." I heard Bruce chuckle, which caused my annoyance to flare up again. I cleared my throat, prepared to test my theory. "Wayne. You didn't tell me you were inviting a little bird over."

"Did you tell her?" Dick asked, confirming that I was right.

"Not hard to figure out, since I know he's Batman and you're his ward." I peeked my head into the living room. "Who told you the green tights were a good idea?"

"Hey! That was a long time ago. I'm not Robin anymore."

"Dick's studying at Gotham University right now." Bruce folded his arms across his chest, shooting daggers at me from his spot on the couch. "You might have seen him at the lecture you attended today."

I winced. Busted. My eyes flicked to Dick, who grinned at me sheepishly. "Rat." I hissed.

"Linnet." Bruce grumbled. "Start talking."

 **Thanks for reading!**


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